


Myopic

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Res Gestae [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Family, Future Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Romance, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:12:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean, and the two little boys they've taken in.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Myopic

A year and a half after they adopt the boys, life finally settles back into something like normal. It takes that long to really be sure the forged paperwork will take, for the new house to feel like home, and for some of the shadows to leave the boys' eyes. Dean has watched on quiet guard, spent the first three months sitting vigil at their bedsides until they fell asleep.

They don't need that anymore, and Dean knows what a big step it is. The two still share a room, because no way is Drew letting his little brother out of his sight, even in sleep. There's a spare room waiting, but for the moment both twin beds are crammed into the one space. Dean suspects that's how it will stay for another year at least.

The only other piece of furniture that fits in the room is a worn, cushioned rocking chair. They picked it up at a garage sale ages back, when Sam was still in school and money was tight, and it's just about the most comfortable chair in existence. It's the chair Dean sits in now when one of the boys can't sleep, humming made-up melodies until their breathing evens out. Sometimes Sam watches from the hall, leaning on the doorframe and sharing Dean's vigil.

Zack still has nightmares. Both of them do, really, but Drew's older, has learned to roll onto his other side and force himself back to sleep. Dean's heart twinges with understanding, because he knows the kid does it for Zack. Knows Drew doesn't want to wake or worry his brother. He's the oldest, 12 going on 13, and Dean wants to tell him it's okay. He can be a kid, he can _be_ freaked out, because Dean and Sam, they've got it all under control. But it's not his call, so he steps back to let Drew protect his brother the way he needs to.

Zack's nightmares are worse, if gradually less frequent, and Dean goddamn hates living in a world that can leave a little kid such a mess. He knows the boy is reliving that moment in his dreams, the one Sam and Dean weren't quick enough to prevent, losing his parents to a darkness that's not supposed to be real.

He always comes awake with a shrill cry, little body jolting upright in bed, and Dean's got his reaction time down to an art form. Awake in an instant, out of bed and up the stairs in the span of a heartbeat, through the door to find Drew trying to coax his little brother out of a terrified ball.

Dean knows that won't work, just picks him up huddle and all and settles into the chair in the corner. Holds the shaking, crying six-year-old in his lap and gives Drew a look that says, ' _It's okay, buddy. You did good. I got it_.' Watches the older boy climb back into bed and pretend to sleep, and Dean rocks slowly back and forth, arms a protective circle around the little one as his shirt gets soaked through with snot and tears. He keeps up a constant quiet stream of, "Shhhhh, hey dude, come on. Just a dream. It's over, okay? I'm here, Drew's here. Easy, easy, just breathe."

Sam always opens his arms for Dean's return, spoons up behind him and interlocks the fingers of their left hands. Next morning always comes with the smell of burnt eggs and sizzling bacon as Sam tries to make breakfast, and Zack looks tiny in Sam's enormous arms when he lifts the kid right off the floor and hugs him long and tight.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sixth grade has Drew taking the bus to a new school, no more sending the boys together to the elementary school three blocks down the road. It's probably the hardest transition they've faced, but Zack decides he's going to be a big boy about it, and he doesn't cry _once_ after the first week. By mid February it doesn't phase him anymore.

"All right, Monsters, we ready?" Morning routine, and Dean knows if the word is an endearment it's got no power to scare them.

"Yes!" Unison reply.

"Lunch boxes?"

"Check!"

"Milk money?"

"Check!"

"Homework?"

"Check!"

Sam's already gone, a quick kiss on his way out the door, headed for the Washington County Government Center. It's a crap little library, probably about as big as their living room, but it's closer than the law library downtown. Dean made sure to slap Sam on the ass as he disappeared into the garage.

"All right, troops, move out!"

Drew's bus stop is a block and a half from the house, and they're all bundled tight against the winter cold. It's gray and white, muddy, and the huddled mass of children waiting for the bus is a sad sight to behold. Dean and Zack wave goodbye as they continue on towards Rockside Elementary.

The mass of children is gone by the time Dean makes his return trip, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. There's snow, the sad wispy kind that always seems like it doesn't quite have the energy to really try.

Back in the living room it's a quick matter of gathering his stuff, corrected quizzes and book reports. His leave of absence could only last so long, and when it ended he'd gone back to teaching. He had to stick to part time, but the school still wanted him. It's a long drive, one he always barely makes in time for his ten o'clock algebra class. Every morning the bell sounds just seconds after he dashes into the classroom, and the students' faces shine bright with challenge and potential defiance.

But even rebellious middle-schoolers know to sit down and shut up when Mr. Winchester stands and starts talking. Doesn't keep him from dreaming wistfully of snagging an opening at that elementary school all of three blocks away, but the drive doesn't really matter when he loves his job.

"Okay," he says, tossing a stack of papers down on his desk. "Your quizzes weren't half bad. Now, who thinks they did the homework problems right and wants to earn some extra credit?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Dean had gone back to work, Sam cut back his practice hours. Because even now they don't want the boys coming home to an empty house. Sam's early mornings mean he's done in time to pick Zack up on his way home, and Dean always walks in the door to the metallic twang of Zack's favorite videogame, Sam's research and photocopies spread all across the enormous couch. Drew will be home by then, will have spread his own work across the smaller sofa in not-so-subtle imitation, and the two will be commiserating about how they'd rather be playing Zack's videogame.

It makes the silence when Dean walks back into the house that afternoon disconcerting as hell, and as he kicks off his shoes all he hears is the scritch-scritch of pen on paper.

Sam and Drew are sitting right where they're supposed to be, hard at work across the couches, but there's definitely something missing. Dean perches on an armrest, peering at Drew's work over his shoulder. No urge to see what Sam is up to, because Dean doesn't really give a shit about breaches of implied warranty and nonmutual offensive collateral estoppel.

"Hey," says Dean when he's pretty sure he won't be interrupting in the middle of a math problem. "Where's the Mini-Monster?"

"Upstairs," says Drew, not looking up from his work. Dean can hear the poorly masked freak-out in his voice. "He won't tell me what's wrong."

Dean lifts his eyes and finds Sam watching him, a helpless shrug on his brother's shoulders. So Drew _and_ Sam struck out. Great.

"Maybe third time's the charm," says Dean as he stands back up. "I'll see what I can do."

The steps squeak a little under his feet, soft slide of stockings over wood, and he knocks on the door at the top of the stairs.

"Go away!" comes the muffled response. Dean resists the urge to barge right in.

"Dude, it's me," he says instead, lays his palm flat against the wood. "If you don't open the door I'm just gonna stand out here being a noisy pest. You really want that?"

Dean can hear the heavy sigh even through the door, the thump as Zack rolls out of bed and trudges across the room. Soft click of the doorknob and the door swings open.

Zack is standing there, looking tiny and rumpled. His face is a brave attempt at indignant, but the kid's obviously been crying, nose a runny mess, and Dean drops to one knee so he can be on level when he asks, "Can I come in?"

Zack nods and steps back. Hops up on the edge of his bed as Dean steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. Dean slips into the chair and tries to wait the silence out.

"Something happen at school?" he finally asks, and cringes internally when the question is apparently all it takes to shatter six-year-old bravado and send tears rolling down that round little face. "C'mere," says Dean, all he knows how to do, and he opens his arms and hopes. Contains his sigh of relief when Zack shuffles over, climbs right into his lap and curls into a clingy little ball in his arms.

"So, bad day at school. Wanna tell me what happened?" The whimpered little sob is a pretty definitive no, so Dean starts rocking, wracks his brain all the way back to a time when Sam was tiny and needed him to fix _everything_.

"Someone picking on you?" Dean asks carefully, gently. Feels the gesture beneath his chin as Zack shakes his head no.

"Something happen in class?" he tries again, again the headshake. Loud, wet sniffle and Dean knows this shirt is going to be a lost cause. He reaches for the box of tissues on the windowsill and rearranges his grip so he can hold it to Zack's dripping nose.

"Blow," he orders, and god that's _never_ going to stop being gross. Quick wipe, and he tosses the Kleenex over his shoulder and knows it'll land in the trash bin behind him.

"You're going to have to help me out here, dude," he says, shifting the bundle in his arms to keep his left leg from falling asleep. "Give me a little more to go on?"

"I don't _want_ glasses!" the boy wails, and of all the things Dean was starting to worry about, that wasn't really on the list. It's a hell of a non sequitur, and Dean takes a moment to catch his bearings.

"Okay, first? Look at me and breathe." He waits until he's got eye contact, Zack sitting back on his knees, and then gives it another moment as rasping little hiccups of breath even out and calm down to normal. "What makes you think you need glasses?"

Zack fishes around in his back pocket for a minute, finally hands Dean a rumpled piece of paper that's been folded in half three times. Dean unfolds it between them, reads carefully and thinks ' _huh_.' Standard procedure, apparently, a class-wide checkup for every first grader, and the school recommends making an appointment to get Zack's eyes examined.

"That's not so bad, big guy," he says, setting the note aside. "Glasses are totally in right now."

"You and Sam don't wear glasses," Zack points out, looking downright betrayed, and Dean doesn't really have a response to that.

"We would though," he finally reassures. "If we needed them. But see, if you don't need glasses, they don't let you wear them. Trust me. I totally wanted glasses when I was little." It's mostly true, though Dean wasn't that little at the time. He knew he was too pretty, and even as a teenager wondered if wearing glasses would make people stop looking at him. "It'll be easy, dude. We'll set up an appointment, and--"

He's not expecting the renewed wail that cuts him off, or for Zack to hurl himself back into Dean's arms, smearing new tears into his collar.

"I don't _wanna_!" he cries, and Dean doesn't even know what to _do_ with that. It's another ten minutes to get the kid calmed back down, make him blow his nose again and look Dean in the eye. By then he's got a theory, and he hopes he can test it without triggering a fresh crisis.

"So… it's not the glasses. It's the eye exam freaking you out?" The kid looks miserable, but maybe he's finally all cried out, because he just nods and slumps. "Why?" Dean presses, voicing the question as gently as he can.

"Because it _hurts_ ," Zack says, eyes wide like Dean should _know_. "Jenny's got glasses, and she told me."

And Dean may not have glasses, but he's definitely had his eyes checked. Enough times to know that's totally bogus, and he shakes his head, lets the edge of a smile creep out.

"She's pulling one over on you, dude."

Zack looks skeptical.

"I'm serious. Getting your eyes checked doesn't hurt even a little, I promise." Dean is still facing the edges of that skeptical expression, but he _promised_. It's been a year and a half, and Zack's by now got an inkling what that means.

"Tell you what," Dean continues. "Let's make a deal. You let me set an appointment, and we'll _all_ get our eyes checked out."

"Even Drew?" The uncertainty finally melts away, leaving a quiet little hope that makes Dean want to pump a fist in the air in victory.

"Even Drew. Who knows, maybe he needs glasses and the school missed it."

In the end they shake on it, and Dean hovers close as Zack steps onto the plastic stool in the bathroom to reach the faucet and scrub his face. By the time they head downstairs, Dean can smell mac and cheese from the kitchen.

He hopes Sam doesn't set off the smoke detector this time.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean gets a recommendation from Sue next door, and calls the number the very next day to set their appointments. He waits until the weekend to fill Sam in on the plan, and the look his brother levels at him is spliced somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Seriously?" Sam asks.

Dean just nods, already knows Sam is going to shrug his shoulders and go with it.

The optometrist is in the bottom of a two-story building. Upstairs houses dentists or something, but Dean's not actually sure since they still meet their dental needs at an office downtown.

The waiting room is tiny but open, wide windows along the front of the building, and they've got a clear view of the far wall and all the available frames.

Dean goes first, isn't all that surprised when the friendly little man tells him he's got better than perfect vision, 20/15 at least. He can read every line on the stupid chart, and yeah, he and Sam would never have survived if their eyes weren't perfect. Hunting requires skill, precision, and a honed ability to see the enemy coming.

By the time he reclaims his uncomfortable seat in the waiting room, Drew is done, too. Zack is gone, and Sam's still sitting awkwardly in a chair too small for his tall frame.

"So, Monster, what's the verdict?" Dean asks, and is pretty sure he feels his checkbook sigh with relief when it turns out Drew is in the clear. Not quite perfect vision, but close enough, no need for glasses. Sam gets called a moment later, squeezes Dean's shoulder on his way by, and it's all down to waiting for the little one.

They don't have to wait long, just a couple rounds of rock-paper-scissors to pass the time before Zack sags his way back to them.

"Glasses, then, huh?" asks Dean, hauling the kid up onto his lap in a practiced, fluid motion. Zack nods a dejected little nod and hands over the slip of paper bearing an illegible prescription. "Hey, come on, buddy. Thought we went over this. Glasses are _cool_."

Zack levels a look straight at his brother and asks, "Are you getting glasses?"

Drew looks guilty as hell when he shakes his head. They sit in awkward, dreary silence for going on ten minutes before Dean decides enough is enough.

"Seriously, dude, it'll be good. Soon as they're done with Sam we can get him to help choose the best frames this place has got."

Zack looks up at him through messy bangs, eyes blue and bright and not even a little bit placated.

Dean is saved by the familiar thump of Sam's footfalls, and he looks up to catch his brother's approach.

"About time," Dean says, mock irritation and a smirk on his face. "We need you to help make very important decisions about Zack's new glasses."

"Yeah," says Sam, fidgeting a little. "I should probably pick out my own frames first."

That takes a minute to sink in, long enough that Dean should probably be embarrassed that he's not quicker on the uptake.

Drew figures it out first. Unfolds from his chair to stand and point and say, "Sam! _You_ need glasses?"

Zack perks right up at that, probably figures it out the same second Dean does, and he scrambles to the floor as Sam nods.

"Really?" he asks, and Sam leans down to scoop him up.

"Yup." Sam levels a warning look at Dean, totally unnecessary and only for an instant, before giving Zack his full attention. "Whaddya say, dude? Want to look at frames?" Dean has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, because it's too damn funny. His brother needs _glasses_ , and suddenly there's an envious look on Drew's face as the three head for the displays along the opposite wall.

Dean watches his boys and his Sam from where he sits, not in any particular rush to join the discussion about which of a hundred nearly identical frames look the best. He's got this warm glow of a feeling, a pleasant pulse of knowing things are _good_ , and he fiddles absently with the ring on his left hand.

Yeah, things are good, and there is no _end_ to the shit he plans on giving Sam once the boys are out of earshot.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It turns out that picking the perfect frames is not a fast process, and it's almost two hours later that they finally parade home. Dean brings up the rear, and he hits the garage door button on his way into the kitchen.

It's a late dinner, burgers and tater tots, and Dean cooks while Sam loses at Donkey Kong in the living room. Zack spends the whole evening looking at everything askance, walking carefully and holding his hand out to test distances. It can't be _that_ different, but Dean has to bet it's still disconcerting as hell. He sort of wonders what it's like, and keeps subtle watch just in case the kid decides to walk into any walls.

Sam fares better, even if nothing in the world can help his game skills. They never got a Nintendo growing up, and there are some things you just can't learn later in life. The used N64 in the living room bests him every time, but it doesn't keep him from trying. Kicking Sam's pixilated ass never fails to set the boys grinning and laughing, and who in the world could say no to that?

Bedtime arrives quickly, accompanied by the usual whining and moaning, but they've got a system. Even as they protest, the boys hop to it. Pyjamas first, then teeth, brushing _and_ flossing, and Drew reads his little brother exactly two stories before lights out. Dean knows that eventually war will be inevitable, because Drew's already too old to enforce an 8:30 bedtime. For the moment it's enough that Zack needs him, and Dean relishes the quiet for the gift it is.

Zack's glasses have thick, sturdy frames. Thicker than he wanted, but it's a good compromise, a pair that should hold strong under hard use. Zack is young, and those glasses are going to have it rough. When he takes them off they go in a small case that snaps loudly shut and sits on the nightstand between the beds.

"G'night, Monsters," says Dean, clicking off the light and pulling the door shut behind him. Sunday tomorrow, and _god_ but Dean loves the weekend. The steps give their same familiar creak on his way downstairs. He's already memorized the sound, because in just a couple of years he's going to be listening as a teenager sneaks in after curfew.

Sam is puttering around their bedroom when Dean finds him, tidying unnecessarily and still wearing his own new pair of glasses. Sam's are those delicate wire-framed things, the kind that are supposed to look invisible but totally don't. Dean catches in his tracks, one hand on the doorjamb, and for just a second he can't breathe.

He shakes it off quickly and steps into the room, door a soft click behind him. Because the fact that Sam is _hot_ in his new glasses? That doesn't take brotherly taunting off the menu.

"Must be all those late nights in the stacks, Sammy," he says, dropping jovially onto his side of the bed. "I always knew all that research would do you in."

Sam snorts and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't actually deign to respond.

"Those crap photocopies probably don't help, either. I don't know how you read some of that shit." Dean tugs his socks off as he speaks, chucks them three feet into the hamper. "I _told_ you patent prosecution would be the death of you, dude."

"Now you're just being overdramatic," says Sam, eyebrows quirked _just so_ and Dean knows his brother is trying not to smirk.

"Maybe." Dean tugs his shirt off. "But I'm not the one walking around with 'nerd' spelled out on his face."

"So you don't plan on getting laid ever again," says Sam as he gives a deliberate shrug. "Fair enough, that's your choice."

Dean laughs, watches Sam take off his glasses and set them on the dresser so he can finish changing into boxers and a t-shirt. Dean _keeps_ watching just for the glorious view as Sam turns his back and retreats into the bathroom. Dean thinks about shucking his jeans, but first he's curious.

All of two steps to the dresser, and the glasses are weirdly light in his hands. They distort the world when he puts them on, but not as badly as he expects. Just shift everything a little off, a little too tight and close, and yeah, he would definitely get a headache if he wore these for more than ten minutes.

He hears the aborted snicker that signals he's been caught, and rather than admit any defeat he meets Sam's stare dead-on. Sam smirks, a sly, dark slide of a smile, but Dean raises his chin defiantly. Feels the tug at the corner of his mouth as his own lips try to quirk into a grin.

Sam wastes no time getting into his space, just steps forward and pulls Dean in by the lapels, teeth catching at his own lower lip.

"Do they make me look smarter?" Dean asks, finally stops fighting the stubborn edge of a smile.

"Dude," Sam's eyes are bright. "It'll take a hell of a lot more than a pair of glasses to make you look _smart_."

"You are such a little bitch."

"And you're short. _And_ judging me for myopia. So where does that leave us?" Sam is grinning outright now, not even the pretense of feigned annoyance.

"Fine," Dean surrenders, tilting his head back to try and see Sam clearly through the strange, minute distortion of the lenses. "Truce?"

A kiss in response, easy and familiar, except that the glasses get in the way. Sam laughs, a loud bright sound that makes Dean's heart feel too large in his chest, and Dean takes the glasses off. Sets them aside with gentle fingers as he says, "Y'know, those aren't so bad. Can't believe you haven't screwed your eyes up worse by now."

Sam kisses him again, ' _shut up_ ' communicated clearly in the insistent press of lips before he lets Dean take the lead. It's give and take between them, always, and Dean can never get enough of the soft slide of Sam's hair through his fingers, can never _have_ enough as his tongue maps familiar territory, slides eager and inviting past Sam's lips. Arms that are strong and sure as ever wrap around him and hold him close, Sam's enormous hand sliding to shape around the base of his skull, and Dean rides with it, lets his brother change the angle and take him along.

Half naked is nowhere near naked enough, and Dean takes a moment to run appreciative hands across Sam's stomach before grabbing hold and yanking his brother's shirt over his head. The boxers are easy, and then both of them are fighting with Dean's fly, a slide of fabric to get the rest of the way naked and that's more like it. More familiar touches, the slip of skin on skin as Sam maneuvers them down onto the bed in a practiced motion.

"How do you want it, Dean?" Sam asks, breathy moan against his ear as Dean feels himself harden in Sam's broad grasp. It takes him a moment, even after so many years of _just like this_ , to assemble the brain cells for an appropriate response.

He doesn't speak, just levels a heated look that he knows his brother will be able to read. Sam ducks in for another kiss, meaningful smile on his lips when he draws back. His hands follow the progress of his retreat as he slides away down Dean's body, all fluid grace and confidence.

His lips are hot, wet, _perfect_ , his hands steady on Dean's hips to keep him from bucking helplessly under the touch, and it's beautifully intense. They've had years to figure this out, and Sam's got all of Dean's buttons memorized, knows how to get him desperate and writhing in the span of a heartbeat, knows how to drag it out, taunting with his tongue, until Dean is a shattered mess of hungry, shuddering anticipation.

Sam draws up just short of that point, doesn't take him over the edge, and Dean feels himself shaking and needy under his brother's hands as Sam slides back up along his body and fumbles in the nightstand.

Quick prep, the familiar slide of Sam's long fingers inside him, and that's all Dean's got the patience for tonight. Sam knows it, and he gives a teasing smile as he sets the lube aside, asks, "You ready, Dean?"

"Sadistic bastard," Dean hisses, body arching on instinct, searching for friction, and Sam laughs as he slicks himself up. Takes his place, right where he belongs, settles easily between Dean's thighs, and slides home. The pace is just right, just goddamn _perfect_ , and all Dean can do is grunt his approval because words are somewhere a million miles beyond him.

Sam stills there, no further to go, and Dean surges up to kiss him. Lets Sam push him back into the pillows, sucks greedily at the taste of Sam's tongue slipping past his lips, and it's one of hundreds of perfect moments, an affirmation of everything they are, everything they've fought through to get here. Their bodies hold steady and still, as mouths and tongues lay the same certain claim as a thousand times before.

When Sam finally moves it's almost too much, and Dean has to fight his body back from the edge to keep from coming first. This part is always a battle between them, the rock and slide of Sam fucking into him, Sam's hand sliding between them to jerk him in time with each thrust, and it's a battle to see who falls apart first.

Dean wants it to be Sam, wants to watch his brother's face as he comes to pieces with Dean's name in his throat, but tonight he's already too close. Sam's lips play along his jaw, taunting and deliberate and that's not goddamn _fair_ , but Dean loses it anyway. Comes hard and fast across Sam's sliding fingers, and by the time he's got a hold on reality again Sam's already been and gone.

His brother is dead weight on top of him, breathing hard and giving off heat like the furnace he is.

"Move it, Sasquatch," Dean mutters, shifting awkwardly until Sam complies. He scoots aside, sliding free of Dean's body with a wet sound, and Dean grimaces at how that never stops grossing him out.

Sam won the battle of wills tonight, so he gets to make the run for a wet washcloth. The water's cold, smug little bitch that he is, but Dean still wipes clean and throws the used towel in the general direction of the bathroom.

"C'mere," he says, tossing back the covers to make room for both of them.

Sam slides right in, and Dean turns to settle cooperatively on his side. Sam's got this thing where he can't sleep unless he's wrapped as far around Dean as physically possible, so this is their default position. Dean on his side, Sam spooned right up behind him, and Dean has learned to sleep while completely overheated. Goddamn furnace of a little brother, but he smiles when Sam clicks off the light and pulls him close.

A long, still moment of silence, and Dean's not even sure if Sam is still awake until his brother speaks.

"I could always get contacts," he says, and the words make Dean freeze up in his brother's arms.

"Don't you dare," says Dean, voice unflinching steel.

"You _do_ have a thing for the glasses." Sam doesn't sound particularly surprised. He sounds sleepy, words coming out in a drowsy slur.

"I plead the fifth."

"That only works for criminal prosecutions, Dean," says Sam, punctuating his point with a wide, noisy yawn. Dean already knows that, but Sam is asleep behind him a heartbeat later.

The house is dark and silent, except for the heavy winter wind at work on the walls outside. Dean closes his eyes, settles easily into Sam's arms, and falls asleep to the knowledge that this is home.

~*~*fin*~*~


End file.
